Aftermath
by Gandalf3213
Summary: Once you find someone you'd die for, you don't think about how right it is. You think about all the things that could go wrong. One ordinary day, something went terribly wrong for the Hardy boys. Left with the Aftermath, they have decisions to make.
1. Learning

**A/N: I think I have a disease, because I am way too addicted to these stupid Hardy boy books. It's not healthy, but it does fuel my writing. Here's another story, a little shorter than the one that's almost finished (unabashed plug here --- real **_**Life as We Knew It**_**. It has Hardys…) So here we go. Enjoy the ride. I don't own the Hardy's. **

**Dedication: To my brother and my cat, without either of whom I wouldn't be able to write. And once again to the characters, who put up with everything I do to them and still land on their feet. **

"_There are some things we don't want to admit, even to ourselves. Truth: We all die. Question: What are you going to do about that?"_ _**Alex Conaway**_

"Yo, Frank, wait up!"

Frank turned around and grinned, slowing his pace so seventeen-year-old Biff Hooper could catch up. Biff's blond hair was sticky with sweat and matted to his forward, but he wore a huge, genuine smile. "Hey, Frank, that was an awesome game. Sorry your team sucked."

Sticking out his tongue was not something the normally reserved, mature Hardy did, which is why Biff let out a whooping laugh. "Ah, it probably wouldn't have been so bad if your no-good brother had been there. When's he due back, anyway?" Only Frank could have detected the pleading quality of the last sentance. Biff and Joe had been best friends since pre-kindergarten. This was Biff's way of asking if Joe was ready to come out and play.

"Today, I think. Actually, he might already be home." In his head, Frank calculated the distance between Vermont, where Joe had gone to visit an old friend for the weekend, and Bayport. Assuming his brother had actually gotten out of bed by nine – a stretch for the sleep-loving teen – he should be arriving in the town soon.

Biff nodded slowly, "Yeah. Hey, tell him to call me or I'll call him. We're going out tonight, and you're not invited, 'kay?" Biff was two inches taller than Frank and maybe twenty pounds of muscle heavier, but he still managed to act and look like a seven year old when he felt like it.

"Fine, fine, have you BFF time." It was only around Biff that Frank acted like a twelve-year-old girl, since he would never normally be caught dead saying 'BFF'. "But bring him back by midnight. In one piece, this time. With no bruises. Preferably sober. And breathing."

"Dude, that was only one time." Biff grinned happily as the pair reached the parking lot. Frank threw his bag into the back of the van – he and Joe had flipped for cars before the younger boy left. Frank got to keep the van while Joe was stuck driving their aunt's old Volkswagon Beetle, something their father hadn't been able to give up after her death. Frank grinned at the mental image of Joe I n the small, bright yellow car.

Frank waved as Biff backed out of the parking lot and got into the van. The movement must have given him a headrush, for he was suddenly very cold and intensely aware of the sudden silence. He punched the button for the radio, hastily lowering it as a U2 CD came blaring out of the speakers at high volume.

Rolling his eyes at Joe's favorite band, which the older Hardy would always claim was a girl band, Frank backed out of the parking lot and headed towards home and a cold shower.

Bayport in summer was filled with tourists. The small town had the advantage of being close to the ocean and sporting it's own rather large lake where the brothers kept their boat, _The Sleuth_. Frank drove through the crowded streets in a half-daze, absentmindedly humming to "With or Without You" as he dreamed of getting out of the sweaty uniform.

Pulling into the driveway, Frank noticed that he had beat Joe home, which meant he'd have to field a half-serious call from Biff about the different ways Joe would die if he didn't get home soon. He left the keys in the van, a bad habit the brothers had when they arrived home and expected to leave again soon. In this case, Frank was looking forward to a night with his friends at Mr. Pizza, where Tony worked. It was often the place of choice for the Senior's nights out while Joe, Biff, and Iola, the Juniors in their group of friends, preferred the movies and the Dinner on the other side of town.

He picked his way over the many beds of flowers planted by the Hardy's mother's green thumb and shouldered open the door to the house, still humming the stupid song.

The first thing he noticed was the cold. He dropped his baseball bag by the door and closed it. The inside of the Hardy's small house was at least thirty degrees colder than the outdoors, and Frank started to involuntarily shiver.

Something wasn't right.

All his detective instincts flared to life, rejecting this scene. Something was out of place. Something was terribly wrong. Cautiously, Frank moved into the living room, tense, ready to fight. He wasn't expecting to find both his mother and father at the kitchen table, just sitting there.

The relief he felt didn't last long, though. In an instant, Frank took in his mother's face, buried in her hands, her shoulders that shook with each sob. He saw his father, an arm around his mother, though Fenton himself seemed to be working not to cry. Both looked up when Frank walked in.

Something clicked in Frank's head, and he drew parallels between this scene and the one he and Joe had walked into when their Aunt Gertrude had died, just five months ago. "Who is it?" He breathed, his mind racing through a catalogue of friends and relatives who could evoke this emotion from his parents. One of the cops from Bayport, maybe? The Chief, or Con Riley? Or…no. No.

"Frank." Fenton stood up, and Frank noticed that there were tears in his father's eyes. He'd never seen the oldest Hardy look this way before…older, somehow, and defeated, and lost. "Frank, maybe you should sit down."

"No." The word pushed itself out of Frank's throat. He wouldn't believe it, he couldn't. He looked his father in the eye, "Dad, please…no."

"Frank." When Fenton's voice cracked on the word, when the man looked away, Frank knew. A wail came from his mother, forgotten at the table, experiencing the grief of a mother losing her youngest son.

Fenton seemed to be stealing himself to say it. "There was a car accident, Frank. A…fire. Your brother…Joe…didn't make it."

"No!" A shout this time, though Frank didn't know who, if anyone, he was angry at. He swayed on his feet, unable to take it in. So this is what it felt like when your heart broke. Suddenly, he couldn't feel anything. He didn't feel any pain.

He looked at his father, and wondered why his own cheeks felt wet. He didn't know he was crying. He didn't know anything anymore. There would be time for questions later. Because there were questions, too many to make their way out of Frank's head in anything resembling a coherent sentence. Only one read thought drifted in an endless circle, never going anywhere, never leaving.

_I should have been there. I should have protected him. We've been on a hundred cases. A car accident._ Finally, at the end, he reached a conclusion, why he felt this way, why he felt nothing. _I thought I would know._

That's when he collapsed on the floor. He could vaguely hear his mother start crying even harder, his father calling his name. One thought stayed with him as the world went dark…_It wasn't supposed to be you, Joe. It was supposed to be me._

**Wait a chapter before yelling at me for killing Joe, 'kay? I have a plan. **

**But…what do you think? Review. Please?**


	2. Denial

**Because of the overwhelming response to the first chapter, there will be no more teasing (well, a little more teasing). Here's the next installment. Please, don't kill me yet. One more chapter. **

"_End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just the next path. One that we all must take." __**Gandalf**_

Frank blinked up at his ceiling, wondering vaguely why he was in bed while it was still obviously light out. He stretched, his face twisting into a grimace as he realized he fell asleep in his baseball uniform. It was only when he started to get out of bed, when he saw Joe's book, left behind by him on one of his many visits to Frank's room, that he remembered.

It was as if someone had punched him. Frank doubled over, gasping for air as wave after wave of emotions swirled through him, emotions so complicated, coming and going so quickly, that he couldn't begin to place or name them. His hand reached out, touched the book, made it fall to the ground, and he let out a strangled laugh.

_On Death and Dying._ Oh, there was irony, and God had a twisted sense of humor.

Thoughts floated through his head, so quick he barely had time to register them before they were replaced:

Joe burned to death. Burned. Painful. Once, on many of their many stakeouts, they had passed the time by playing Truth or Dare, which turned into Truth or Truth, as neither of them could perform any good dares in a sitting position. Joe had confessed that night that the worst death would be burning alive, when you could see your flesh coming off the bones, when you could survive for several minutes before you suffocated.

But then again, it was an explosion, maybe Joe had died without pain, and what more could they ask, really? They, who had thwarted death so many times, who had thought they were invincible, above everything, everyone, including death. They had often said, if not aloud, in their gestures, that they were above everything but each other.

Brothers, and Frank was older. Had he not taken every precaution on missions to make sure it was he, not Joe, who was directly in the line of fire? From an early age, Frank had been Joe's protector, a status that earned him Joe's…awe. Admiration.

Joe…Joe…quick, brilliant, cocky, smart, loving Joe. Dead. Unmoving. Gone. Those words were completely at odds with Joe's fiery spirit and personality. Joe was _alive_ in every sense of the word. He was charismatic and funny and nice, could charm the pants off of anyone, regardless of age, and had a bigger heart than he had ever been able to admit.

Joe had fiercely protected anything he deemed worthy of protection. This included his values --- to Frank's knowledge, Joe had never been drunk, never tried drugs, never been with a girl. It included his friends, to whom he was fiercely loyal. It had included, a year ago, Iola Morton, who was and would have always remained the love of Joe's life. It included Frank. Joe was occasionally more paranoid about Frank's safety than Frank was of his.

And…it always seemed to come back to this…it should have been Frank. He was older. He wasn't as necessary, as important, as vital as Joe. Fate was fickle, it had taken, in quick succession, Iola and Aunt Gertrude, both of whom were infinitely closer to Joe than to Frank. Given the option, though people never seemed to give him the option, Frank would willingly die in his brother's stead.

Those thoughts, in maybe forty seconds, flew through Frank's head and continued on an endless loop until he saw pictures, memories, flashes of his brother that had imprinted themselves on him. _Joe_.

He was already thinking of his brother in past tense. How sick was that? Joe hadn't been dead twelve hours, Frank hadn't seen the body yet, and Joe was already old news. This final thought made Frank collapse back on his bed, warm rivers flowing down his cheeks.

What would he do without Joe? Go to school in September like nothing had happened? Hang out with friends, have them constantly be staring at him, ready for him to have a breakdown? Would he leave the house, go to college, had a _life_ knowing Joe could never do the same? Joe would always be a seventeen year old boy, while Frank grew up.

Was it Peter Pan who said he never wanted to grow up? Why was he thinking about Peter Pan?

No. No to everything. Frank sat bolt upright, tears rapidly evaporating from his cheeks. He was…numb…no. He was filled to the brim with one final, decisive thought.

_Revenge_.

Joe hadn't randomly died. It wasn't his time to go. Say anything about Joe, but he was a good driver. Their father had made sure of that when they had each turned fifteen. Joe knew cars upside down and backwards, knew what made them tick and how to coax the most speed from them. He was not reckless, merely cool, calculating, performing a task with the utmost reverence for what he was doing.

Someone, something had caused this accident. Must have, because that was the only logical explanation. That was one of Joe's least favorite phrases "there must be a logical explanation." Granted, he did say it a lot, especially when they were on a case. When Joe was maybe fourteen, he told everyone that Frank was a Vulcan. Their parents had found that funny.

Vulcans, Peter Pan, what was he doing? Automatically, Frank's inner detective, ever alert, answered him. _You're grieving_.

Automatically, he denied this, though he later wondered why. What was the point? What the was the point of anything anymore? _No, I'm not. _

_Liar_.

And maybe he was -- grieving that is -- but he wouldn't be for too long. He already had a plan — another thing Joe had hated, all of Frank's plans. But he did have one, ready and waiting, perfect to the last detail.

He would solve Joe's murder, for it had to be a murder. There was, in Frank's professional and personal opinion, no such thing as an "accident". After that, he would personally make sure that person suffered for the rest of their lives. Then he, Frank, would die.

That was the part that wasn't completely detailed, though it was a solid, concrete, _logical_ thought. If he couldn't function, couldn't live without Joe, the logical next step in the reasoning was that he wouldn't live.

Frank, completely composed, utterly rational, stepped over to the phone. He would do a few things before throwing himself completely into his last and most important case. The first was to call Chet and Biff, who needed to know. The second was to take a shower.

_Maybe I'll reverse those_. Frank was tired, though he guessed he'd been passed out for almost an hour. A shower, a warm one, would loosen his limbs, drive the weariness from his bones.

Carefully, Frank stepped over the book, skirted around one of Joe's sweatshirts. In the bathroom that connected his and Joe's rooms, he avoided looking at Joe's towel, hung lopsided on its rack, ready, waiting. Frank turned the knob on the shower and found it erased the screaming. Was those screams from his mother, his father, or in his own head? Was it the sound of grief, of loss, of darkness?

Frank had never understood how a criminal became a criminal. What, exactly, made them think that there was nowhere they could go, no one they could go to? Now, though…now Frank felt nothing but a burning desire to see Joe again.

Eighteen, seventeen. These things shouldn't happen to them.

The shower hadn't helped. His bones, his muscles, his soul was still so tired, and Frank thought he could sleep for years, at least.

Frank stepped out of the shower, and the screams had stopped. Someone was laughing. Someone was yelling. Someone…

Using the phone in the bathroom, Frank called Biff. He didn't cry as he talked to the boy, though at the end of their short exchange Biff did. Their conversation, to utterly rational and logical Frank, was like this.

"Biff?"

"Your no-good brother home yet? All the good movies start at eight, and I want to grab some food before that. C'mon, put him on, I haven't talked to him for forever."

"Biff."

"I swear he'll be in…well, he will be a couple pieces by the time I'm through with him. Did you know he hasn't called me in five days?"

"Biff…."

"What?" Maybe it was Frank's voice, but Biff suddenly sounded frightened, terrified. Did he know? Could he guess?

'There's been an accident, Biff. Joe…"

"No." Denial came first. Victims often didn't know they were victims in the first hours, days, following a crime. Denial first, anger later. Those were the two Frank always remembered.

Tears, now, from the other side of the receiver. "Frank, c'mon, you….this isn't serious. Not…Joe…" His voice was fading fast, lost in tears, strangled, terrible, and Frank felt his logic being chipped away. He would lose it if this conversaion continued...

"Call Chet for me, he has to know. No one else, though, not yet." Frank didn't wait for the response, he hung up, breathing hard as if he'd just run a mile. He pulled on his clothes, only noticing when he walked out of the bathroom that the shirt was Joe's.

Frank rubbed his hair dry, then ran his hand through it. There was so much to do….first and foremost, find the cop or detective assigned to the "accident." That shouldn't be too hard, but his dad couldn't know, it would kill his hdad.

It was only after Frank was four steps into his bedroom that he looked up, and this was only because he heard a small noise.

He looked up and smiled easily at Joe, who was sitting on Frank's bed, his head cocked slightly sideways, waiting.

**Yeah…Frank's kind of messed up at the moment. Poor, poor Frank. Fear not, denial is not over, and neither is this story. **

**Happy Thanksgiving! A perfect was of giving thanks would be reviewing. Please?**


	3. Return

"_And I can't live with or without you." __**U2 (Joe's favorite band)**_

Joe slowly got to his feet, blinking and shaking his head as he rose unsteadily, drunkenly, ending up falling twice before rising all the way.

He _knew_ he had a concussion. He also knew he could do nothing about it, not here in the middle of nowhere. He was so off the beaten path that in the past hour (judging from the sun) no one had seen him passed out cold on the side of the road.

"Damn." Joe never cursed, but being carjacked seemed to warrant it. He could already hear Frank in yelling at him. _You actually picked up a hitchhiker? Do you want to turn my hair grey?_ Frank wasn't very good at acting angry when he was relieved, which he would be when he realized what happened and saw that Joe had gotten away with only a concussion.

A pretty nasty concussion, Joe realized as he started trudging towards the main road which was, from what he could tell from the signs, three miles away. Usually he could do three miles easy, but the concussion (not to mention the heat) slowed Joe's progress to a slow walk, then to barely a crawl.

_Ow, ow, ow_. Joe said to himself as each movement increased his headache until there was just a blinding blur of pain. _Just get home_. That's all he wanted at this point, car or no car.

His dad would be upset he lost the car. It had been Aunt Gertrude's and she'd left it to the boys when she died. It was an old car, probably worth some money. Now that lunatic had it.

Joe smiled ruefully, thinking of his father's expression when Joe arrived in a cab. Oh, he'd be angry. He'd probably order Joe to find the car, knowing full well it would be damn (yes, he cursed again, he was still angry, and hurting) hard to find.

A car rolled up to him with a middle-aged man in the front seat with two boys in the back. "You alright, son?" The man asked, probably eyeing Joe's head. It was bleeding, pretty heavy now, too, and his face was probably sun burned from being passed out on the asphalt in the middle of July.

"Actually…" Joe hesitated, his recent experience with hitchhikers almost preventing his request. Almost. "Could I catch a lift, please, sir?" He smiled a little, figured out that smiling hurt, and waited hopefully.

The man glanced at the back towards the kids. Boys. Brothers. Joe missed Frank at that moment, a searing kind of pain that flashed up his chest before it was gone, batted away by the pain in his head. The man turned back to him, bit his lip, checked his watch, shrugged. "Why not? Where you going?"

"Bayport? It's about…" something was fogging his memory, and Joe had to shake his head, forcing himself to think. "About twenty miles from Albany."

The man gestured for Joe to go around the car, to the passenger seat. "I'm actually going there. Boys want to go to the lake. They say it's good?"

Joe nodded and thanked the man, settling gratefully into the air-conditioned vehicle. He could hear the boys in the back whispering among themselves before one poked him on the shoulder. He opened an eye and turned around to look at them properly. He blinked once, realized he wasn't seeing double (or he hoped he wasn't) and took the boys to be twins, around eleven years old. "What's your name?" One of the boys asked, scrutinizing him distrustfully.

"Joe…" He shook his head, bemused at himself for his temporary lapse of memory. Last name, last name…he _knew_ this. "Joe Hardy."

The boy accepted this answer and turned to his twin, ignoring Joe, which was fine with him. His head hurt so bad, and while he wanted to go home, he didn't.

Oh, he wished he hadn't won Aunt Gertrude's car in the flip. That was one of the few things that was entirely his aunt, no one else, and always reminded him of the old woman. He sighed, leaning back further in the seat and closing his eyes to block out the now-painful light. He wiped his hand distractedly over his forehead and tucked it up his armpit when it came away smeared with blood. He missed Aunt Gertrude, more than he ever thought he would. The old woman was ornery and often mean, but she loved Joe and Frank to pieces and they both knew it.

At some point his feverish musings about his aunt must have turned into half-hearted dreams because the next thing he knew he was being shaken by a small dirty hand. He turned to face one of the twins, who was looking at his with an uncommonly serious gaze. "Here." The boy shoved a Band-Aid into his hand. Joe looked at it and grinned ruefully. Scooby-Doo. That was funny, in a way, though it wouldn't help the gash on his head a whit. He probed it carefully now; most of the blood had dried into a large lump that obscured his vision. He'd have to get that checked out, right after he got…

"So where do you live?" The man driving glanced at Joe, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel to _Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For_. Joe loved U2 with a passion, almost an obsession, but even this wasn't enough to get past the throbbing barrier of pain that was now his head. Joe shook it once, trying to think clearly. "Umm…" He knew this answer too, really he did. Again he shook his head, again finding the barrier that seemed to be holding all his answers back. Finally finding the information, Joe reeled off his address, mentally telling himself to get this memory thing checked out, stat.

Maybe the man noticed how out of it Joe was, maybe he was just a good Samaritan. Either way, he drove to Joe's house (on the opposite side of town from Bayport Lake) and brushed away Joe's thanks with a smile, a wave, and a "good luck." Joe walked in the house, thinking he was going to need it.

He had been practicing his "poor Joe" speech in his head until it was almost perfect. Of course, all the blame would go on that freakin' car thief, but it might take a little while for his parents to see it that way. They'd just bring up the number of cars Joe had lost or totaled in the past two years (four, only two more than Frank, for goodness' sake, but Frank was Perfect). Taking a deep breath, Joe put on a smile and a pained look, going for sympathy as he went into the kitchen.

Joe hadn't been expecting to see both his mother _and_ his father. He gulped imperceptibly, turning up the hurt look a notch. Then he realized that his parents were crying, both of them, his father in big gulping sobs, his mother collapsed on the table, head in arms, just like when Aunt Gertrude…

"Who died?" Joe's voice sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed room and both his parent's turned to stare at him. And stare. They're mouths were seriously wide open, their eyes wide and tearstained. "What?" he questioned, beginning to panic now. The only thing that could make them look like that, cry like that, the only person…

"Frank." He murmured, feeling the temperature suddenly dip down another thirty degrees. No. It couldn't be. Not…Not Frank, not his brother.

Joe turned his back on his parents, forgetting the car, forgetting his bleeding head, forgetting the pain as he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He'd prove to his parents — Frank couldn't be dead, he couldn't be, Joe would have _known_, he's sure he would have.

He flung open the door to his brother's bedroom, immaculate as ever. There wasn't a trace of him in the room.

No. Joe collapsed onto Frank's bed, oblivious to the fact that his head had begun to bleed again. _Frank_. His perfect, over-protective, big brother. His idol, hero, in every respect of the word. His best friend. "Frank." The word escaped as a sob, a wish broken.

The door that led to the bathroom he and Frank shared cracked open. Joe looked up, his head automatically twisting sideways to cut out the painful light that suddenly issued from the door.

It was as if he'd been holding his breath, as if all the feeling had gone from his body and was suddenly put back into it at the sight of Frank as the older boy stepped out of the bathroom and into the diminishing light of the bedroom.

**Did it make sense? Do you want to kill us? **

**It's not over yet. Joe has some…issues in the head department. Pretty serious ones. Plus, no one wants to miss the reunion scene, do they? And poor Biff and Chet and the Hardy parents….we need all of them in here at some point. **

**But that won't happen if you won't review!**


	4. Complications

_"It is the unknown we fear when we look upon death and darkness. Nothing more." **Dumbledore**_

"Get out." Frank ordered, the words springing from his mouth as soon as he realized there was someone else in the room. He didn't care who it was. He needed to be alone.

The figure stood, wavered, took a step. Frank squinted, blinked. It _couldn't _be.

Frank smiled thinly at the illusion of Joe, then blinked again, willing logic to intervene. This jump from reality was wonderful but he knew he needed all his wits if he was going to survive another second, another minute. _Joe_. His brother, his companion, his best friend, reason for life. Dead, gone, forever.

Forever. Such a good word when speaking of love, of weddings and joy and happily-ever-afters, it brought only agony and loneliness when put in the context of death. Because death was, if nothing else, overwhelmingly permanent.

When Frank opened his eyes again it was to find Joe, a solid, real, living Joe, wrapped securely in his arms, bloody face buried in its familiar pace in the hollow of Frank's neck. He could hear Joe's gasps of pleasure, of joy and relief and could only pat him quietly on the back. This was not possible. It could not be happening.

The door was flung open by his parents who simply stood there, arms intertwined, faces still shining with tears, as Joe shook in Frank's arms. Coherent words finally made themselves heard from the younger boy, "I thought…you weren't there…crying…dead…" Blue eyes met brown, both wet with tears, "Frank." The word broke.

"Joey." How far gone Frank had to be to call Joe by the childish nickname he hadn't used in ten years. Joe had not been _Joey_ for a very long time now. "You….you're dead."

"No." Faces met, one bloodied and bruised, one full of wonder, awe, something close to belief. "No."

Laughter. Minutes before, Frank had known he would never laugh again. He'd been planning his own death. Nothing had seemed worth laughing about. Now the feeling bubbled from some deep place within the older boy as he regarded his brother, amazed.

Just a few hours ago the world had suddenly been taken away from him. Now he had his life back in the simple form of his younger brother, his Joe.

"How?" His entire vocabulary seemed to have deserted him as he regarded the younger boy, hand passing lightly over bruises and cuts.

"Yes, tell us." This was Fenton from the doorway as he came in closer, near to Joe. Instinctively, illogically, Frank felt his hackles rise and regarded his father with such as gaze as to make the man step back. Frank drew Joe tighter to himself, breathing heavily, still attempting to reorganize reality. Again.

Joe squirmed in Frank's grip and the darker one realized he had accidently irritated a sore spot. He slackened his grip, briefly, allowing Joe to rub his chest in a circular motion. "Well, actually, I was kind of dreading this…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head a little, like a dog trying to rid itself of an itch.

"The…car…that's it. I picked up a hitch hiker." A group groan arose at this revelation and Frank raised his hand automatically to literally smack Joe upside the head, as he often did when Joe did something idiotic. He refrained himself in light of Joe's injuries and forced himself to loosen his grip further.

"Well, me and Frank….we hitch hike, sometimes, and I was remembering…standing…not being able to get…anyway…He was a lot bigger than me…don't know why he wanted the stupid car anyway." His sentences, his thoughts were disjointed and fragmented. The old protective urge rose in Frank. What had happened?

"We were on the…highway. I stopped to check the map…getting lost…hit me…threw me out…car jack…" Frank winced at the description and fingered the long cut on Joe's forehead. He'd been hit with a car jack before. It was painful, to say the very least.

Frank's hand passed absentmindedly over the back of Joe's head, thinking to himself that they would probably need to get Joe to a hospital after Frank had time to take in the miracle. This was Joe, his brother, disheveled and tan, blond hair slightly matted, familiar and comfortable. His hand came back slightly sticky, covered in blood, both new and dried.

"Joe." His voice was low, stern, no-nonsense, and Joe finally looked him in the eye. A quiet groan left him. A concussion, plain as day when he saw Joe's eyes. If there was a concussion, what other worse injuries could there be?

His concern must have reflected something in his eyes because in a flash both his parents were gone, off to call the hospital or an ambulance or the mayor, whoever might get their son checked out fastest. For a second, the brothers were alone.

Joe had been leaning against the bed post, regarding Frank with a critical gaze. "You look like hell."

A low chuckle. How easily that seemed to come now. How could it not? Joe was alive and kicking, I a bit battered. "Look who's talking, kiddo."

Joe's gaze was indirect, unfocused, his words unsteady. He leaned heavily against the wall and the bed post, making Frank's worry peak. Just how bad was this concussion, anyway? Still, his brother managed to be as alarmingly insightful as ever. "You were worried about me?"

"Of course." Frank frowned slightly. A low self-esteem Joe did not have. He knew Frank loved Joe to pieces (and often said so. He wasn't as afraid of the sentiment as the blond was). Why this uncertainty now?

"You were going to do something drastic." Joe glanced around the room, into the bathroom, at Frank, as if his thoughts had left a trail easily read by the brother. Maybe they had. "Frank…"

"Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter now." Joe didn't need to know about that horrible hour, the worst of Frank's life, between waking up and finding Joe when he had been logically, calmly, preparing for his suicide.

Joe opened his mouth to say something else and suddenly trembled. Frank bit his lip, watching his stubbornly independent brother waver, then crossed the gap between them in one large step. Wrapping his arms loosely around Joe's lower back, he held the boy as gently as he could, unwilling to cause further pain. "What's the matter, kiddo?" Tears dropped onto Frank's shoulder, coming thick and fast from Joe.

"Hurts." Pain was something that Joe didn't admit to often, and Frank started at this, alarmed. He tried not to show his panic as Joe continued. "Stay here, Frank, okay? Don't leave me."

Frank wondered, briefly, what had prompted this statement. It had been he, Frank, who had believed Joe dead, not the other way around. Right? "I'm right here, bro. I won't leave. I promise."

"Thanks." The death grip on Frank's back slackened, the sobs quieted, and the two continued to stand in the embrace until their parents came to bundle them off to the hospital.

In the car, Frank kept quietly prompting Joe to stay awake. Concussions 101 dictated never, under any circumstances, let the victim fall asleep until checked over completely. He felt horrible every time he brought Joe back from the brink of sleep, of relief from the pain. Joe would always moan quietly and look in his direction with feverish, pain-filled eyes.

"You're okay, Joey, stay with me." Joe would nod once, slowly, before his eyes started drifting closed again.

It was lucky the person responsible had died when the car exploded. Frank would have made it his life's purpose to kill him for taking away his brother.

**How do you like it? Joe's in a bad way. Concussions aren't fun. **

**Review, please, and Merry Christmas. **


	5. Heartbreaks

_Our lives are made of these small hours. These little wonders. These twists and turns of Fate. __**Rob Thomas**_

Frank never knew who called Biff and Chet.

He was pacing the hospital waiting room. His father had gone in with Joe, talked quickly to the ER nurse, then spotted a doctor friend who had a few moments to spare to look at a now-obviously unwell Joe. His mother had been swarmed by three woman who worked at the hospital as techs who Laura Hardy knew from her knitting circle and was whisked away for tea and sympathy.

If Frank was honest with himself, if he widened the small bubble that currently engulfed his entire world, consisting of him and Joe, he would be able to say that his parents were as surprised as he was. But at that moment, the eighteen-year-old intellectual could care less about other people, even his parents.

Still, an order was an order, and though Frank wanted desperately to run after Joe, looking at him helplessly from their father's embrace, he knew in his heart he'd be more of a hindrance than a help. He was just beginning to get out of his chair, about to use his detective skills for all the wrong reasons in order to get Joe's room number, when he was attacked.

Biff hit him, fist connecting solidly with jaw that would have floored anyone else. Franks staggered, his years training in self-defense the only thing keeping him upright. He looked up to see Chet holding onto Biff. Maybe it was the blow to the head, but it looked as if Biff was crying.

"That was the…the worst thing you've ever done!" The words shook as Biff said them, and Chet nodded in agreement, eyes focused on Frank.

"What?" The dark-haired Hardy asked stupidly

Chet stepped forward, first looking upset about Frank's now rapidly swelling cheek, then hardening himself. "I get a call from Biff….in _tears_, saying that Joe…that Joe. Damnit, Frank, why would you say something like that?"

"Because I thought it was true. I came home and my dad told me Joe'd died. A car accident." Frank couldn't find any strength o be angry at Biff for punching him; he was suddenly very tired.

"So he's dead? But we were just told…?" Biff was trembling again, the six-foot-three football player looking all of six years old in his fear for his friend.

"No, he's alive. There wasn't an accident. Or, there was, but Joe wasn't in the car." Frank didn't even understand, really, all he knew, all that mattered, was that Joe was safe, for the most part.

Chet's round face softened and he put a hand on Frank's shoulder. Frank looked down at him --- he was almost two inches taller than the portly teen --- and smiled wanly, though he felt more like bawling like a child. "That must have been terrible."

"Like you wouldn't believe." Frank admitted grudgingly.

"Frank…" Biff began, and Frank knew he was about to apologize for the blow. Frank waved it away. "Shut up, Biff."

"No, really. Frank, I'm sorry. I—I thought it was Joe's idea of a prank, or something." Biff's laugh had an edge of hysteria. "I mean, first I get a call saying my…my best friend just died. And then, not fifteen minutes later, one saying he was in the hospital."

Chet's brow furrowed. "Yeah. If he wasn't in an accident why is he in the hospital?"

"I don't really know." Frank admitted. "Something about picking up a hitchhiker and getting carjacked? I don't really understand, Joe had a pretty bad concussion."

"Stupid kid." Biff murmured fondly. "What's he doing, picking up hitchhikers? He's lucky he wasn't …" he tactfully let the end of the sentence trail off, aware that the other two understood exactly how close to death the younger Hardy had been. Again.

"You okay, Frank?" Chet asked, eyes fixed on Frank's face. Not able to lie to his best friend, Frank shrugged, feeling another bout of nervous energy start in his system. Where _was_ his father?

"Can we see him?" Biff asked, looking around as if Joe would appear out of thin air.

Frank took a deep breath, fixed his features so they seemed cool, calm, then walked up to the nurse at her station. This was usually Joe's job, prying information out of people who were unlikely to give it. Maybe it was the young boys' choir-boy features or his lilting voice, but Joe could scam info out of just about anyone.

"Excuse me, can you tell me the room Joseph Hardy is being examined in?" the nurse looked up. She appeared to be in her thirties, with auburn hair and grey eyes. The few laugh lines around her eyes made her prettier instead of less so.

She looked at Frank for a long moment. "And who are you?"

There were times when not looking related became helpful. "I'm the guy who gave him the concussion. We all are, actually." He gestured to Biff and Chet, hovering a few steps behind him. "A pickup game of football in the park. He went down a lot harder than we thought."

"Lightweight." Biff snorted, the insult coming out gentle.

The woman stared at the boys for another moment. "He's not being examined. His doctor just admitted him for observation. Room 209."

Trying to quell the rising panic Frank felt at the thought of Joe being admitted to the hospital for what had been a simple concussion, the older Hardy managed to thank the woman and headed towards the stairs, Chet and Biff matching his quick pace.

"Admitted for observation? How many concussions has he had?"

"A few." Frank said, trying to remember just how many. Four, at the very least, and no more than six. "They were low-grade, mostly. He passed out once, though, while we were undercover on a case. We never told dad, so he wouldn't know."

"Why not?" Biff hissed.

The three left the staircase behind and rounded a sharp corner, being unfortunately familiar with the layout of the hospital. "Well, by the time the case was wrapped up Joe said he was feeling fine. You know how Joe is once he sets his mind to something, especially if he feels he'd bruise his ego. God, he's such a kid sometimes."

They came to the room and the three stopped short. Mr. Hardy and the doctor were talking in the doorway. Joe was on the bed, apparently asleep.

"What's going on?" Frank asked loudly, the panic overtaking him. He worked to calm his breathing, found the usual methods didn't work, and took to clenching his fists and imagining hitting something, like the person who'd hit his brother with a carjack. That calmed him down.

The doctor looked at him, Biff, and Chet. "Only family for now, boys."

"These are my sons." Fenton said firmly, nodding the boys in the room. The doctor nodded, though he probably knew that there was no way all four seventeen-and-eighteen-year-olds could be Fenton's.

"What's wrong?" It was Biff who asked this time.

Fenton explained, "It turns out Joe's…he's more messed up than we thought. He passed in the examining room and we haven't been able to wake him."

"I'm recommending an MRI and a few other tests. If there is no bleeding, we'll put him a chemically-induced coma to let him heal more comfortably.

"What?" Frank gasped, gravitating towards Joe automatically. Chet placed a hand on Frank's shoulder consolingly.

"If the MRI reveals something --- a bleed, some other internal injuries, then I'm going to recommend surgery." The doctor looked at each of the boys in turn. "It's always risky to mess around inside the brain, but there are a lot of people who come out with no adverse affects."

"You aren't going to cut into him." Like earlier, Frank felt his hackles rise against this man, a protective urge coming over him. He should be able to protect Joe, and in one day his brother had died, been resurrected, sustained a concussion, and developed a bleed in his brain. Now they wanted to mess around with his baby brother's head? No way.

"Frank, it might not even come to that." Fenton said gently. "If he wakes up between all the scans, it could mean that nothing's wrong with him at all."

Frank stared straight at Fenton. It was Mr. Hardy who looked away first. Frank snorted once, then bent to kiss his baby brother's screwed-up head. "You'll be okay, Joe." He murmured, smoothing back the dirty, blond hair. He'd never lied to Joe before. He wasn't going to start now.

**Questions? Comments? Gripes? Concerns?**

**Review!**


	6. Headaches

_"The truth; it is a beautiful and terrible thing, and therefore shuld be treated with great caution." **Dumbledore**_

Joe opened his eyes just as someone was trying to move him onto a gurney. The first thing he did was to punch the man, the second was to scream. Could you really blame him? The last person to manhandle him had both stolen his car and knocked him out with an iron.

"Woah, Joe. Joey, calm down, it's okay." That was when Joe realized that the person he'd all but punched out was Frank. For some reason, the sight of the person he'd been hoping to see made him want to cry. What was wrong with him?

"F-Frank?" Why was he in a hospital? He seemed to end up in hospitals a lot, through no fault of his own. He was just…accident prone. But the last thing he could remember was that iron coming down on his head, and the faintest sense of Aunt Trudy's little car speeding away.

Which really didn't explain how he ended up in a hospital in Bayport, especially with Frank looking at him like that, and his father and Chet and Biff by the door, staring as if he was Lazarus back from the dead.

Frank didn't seem to mind that Joe had hit him, which was weird. Usually the older Hardy would make a snarky comment about being the mature one, while Joe's attitude was to "shoot first, shoot later, and when everyone was dead try to ask some questions." Instead, his face got really soft and serious, like it always did when Joe was hurt, like it was his fault. "Hey, Joey."

That was twice now, and Frank hadn't called him Joey since he was eleven and Joe was ten and threatened to steal Frank's copy of _Harry Potter_ if Frank called him Joey in front of their friends. "What's wrong?" It was a good question. Other than his killer headache, there was nothing wrong with him that warranted the looks he was getting from everyone.

Then his father was there, pushing Frank out of the way. Joe felt his eyebrows raise at that; for some reason, Frank looked murderous as he was pulled from Joe, and Joe wasn't exactly about their dad taking his place either. He inched away from the man, feeling his heart rate pick up against his will.

"What do you remember, Joe?"

"The hitchhiker I picked up was totally into the whole sadist/saw thing. He threw me out the car. That's what I get for being a good Samaritan." Joe sighed, winced at the pain in his head, and made to get up to find he was all but tied to the bed. "Uh, a little help here?"

It was Biff who eventually disentangled him from the various tubes and wires holding him to the unnecessary machines. Joe noticed his best friend staring at him, eyes looking just as concerned as Frank's. "What's up?" Joe asked, seriously worried. What was he missing?

"Later." Frank said quickly, and Joe turned to the doctor before he could see the older boy glare at Biff.

Joe stood, wobbled for a second and leaned on Biff for support. "So, doc, am I out of here or what?"

The doctor had that same look of 'what the heck are you doing breathing/upright?' Joe was seriously getting tired of that look. Still, the doc managed to shake his head (literally)and and say, "Just one or two quick tests. Concussion."

Joe groaned at that, distinctly remembering his last concussion, the one he swore to Frank he'd get checked out as soon as the case was over. He'd blown it off, of course. "How many tests?" He prodded, looking out the window. The sun was going down and it was the middle of July, so he estimated the time was around eight or nine pm. And he'd wanted to pick up girls with Biff…

"An MRI, at least." And Joe consented. How could he not with Frank looking like that? He couldn't remember the last time his big brother had looked so vulnerable, or so scared.

Something about passing out in the examination room meant that Joe needed to have a wheelchair. He put up a fight, found he was too dizzy to stand exactly upright, and grudgingly consented on the condition that Frank pushed him and their father got as far away as possible.

He felt terrible as soon as the words were out of his mouth, seeing his father's face drop by degrees before he turned and left the room. Joe would have called him back if the man didn't make him feel so uncomfortable.

"Joe, man, what's up with that? You totally just dissed your dad. He seems really upset." Biff's voice was low and urgent as the four boys trailed behind the adults. "What made you say that?"

Joe shifted uncomfortably, making the pounding in his head double. There was no way he was going to tell anyone about his headache, though, or they'd never let him out of this torture chamber. "I don't know. He…scares me." The last part was mumbled, ashamed. He was seventeen. He'd gone against men with _guns_. He should not be afraid of his own father.

"What did the hitchhiker look like?" Chet asked, and Joe shook his head and closed his eyes. He didn't remember. He didn't want to remember.

Frank said something along the lines of the time, them all having a long, emotional day behind them. The cue for Biff and Chet to leave. They both said their goodbyes, making Joe promise to call the next day.

"What do you mean about a long, emotional day, Frank?" Joe asked, closing his eyes. God, if the pounding would only stop…just give him some Advil and a long night's rest.

He felt a gentle hand in his hair and couldn't muster up the will or the energy to swat it away. "Later." A rough voice said. "Just concentrate on giving a good MRI. You don't want to stay here overnight." Frank knew of Joe's paranoia about hospitals. They'd been in far too many.

"If I end up failing this thing, you'll bust me out. Right?" Joe asked hopefully, forcing his eyes open. They were almost to the exam room, but he needed to extract this promise, needed it more than he needed anything else. He wanted the reassurance that his brother was behind him one hundred percent.

Suddenly warm hands were around his waist, helping him stand. "Of course, bro. Mom won't let you stay." Joe didn't understand that, not until… "One day I'll tell you what I went through today." His hands got tighter and Joe leaned into him, realizing that Frank was shaking. Was he…he couldn't be crying. Not Frank.

"I'm sorry." Joe said quietly, not quite sure what he was apologizing for. "I'm sorry." Maybe for making Frank this upset over him. Why was he worth it? Why was Frank always looking as if he was more important, more special than anyone else on Earth?

A mumble, and a kiss was placed gently on his head. Something was wrong, something Frank wasn't telling him. Scared now, and worried, "Frank?" The name was said quietly, breaking in the middle.

"I thought you were dead, bro." Explanation just as Joe was pulled away, asked to lie down in the chamber, told not to move, not to breathe.

"I thought you were dead."

**Poor Joe. Poor Frank. So Joe will be going home, though he still has a couple of issues. Frank is working through the realization that he was about to kill himself. Chet and Biff are worried and angry. Mr. Hardy is confused. **

**Issues all around. Midterms are over, love is in the air, and it's still six frickin' degrees. **

**Please review. **


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